They say it was born the night the heavens split apart and fire rained over the earth. From that storm of flame, only one thing survived: a fragment of fire that refused to die. The Ember carries that ancient blaze still, and whoever lingers near it feels the memory of a world once set alight.

No one saw it appear. One morning it was simply there, as if sorrow itself had planted it in silence. The elders whisper it was woven from the sighs of those who could not cry. Its voice is faint, broken into pieces, like a dream retold by someone who has already forgotten half of it.

It is said The Gentle was born from an apology never spoken aloud. It bowed its head before it even knew the wind, carrying a weight of words that could not be released. Those who stand near it feel a hush in their chest, as if the garden itself were teaching them how to forgive.

Aquí va la descripLong ago, when night refused to end, The Dawn was planted as a bargain with the dark. “One bloom,” the voice of the sky demanded, “to mark the moment light will always return.” And so it opens only once each day, at the exact border between shadow and fire, carrying the promise that morning will always find its way back.

This one was not always old. Once it stood proud, loved by the garden, until time caught up to it. But instead of fading into silence, The Withered learned to keep the past alive. It remembers storms that broke roots, rains that saved them, songs that vanished. It is the storyteller of the garden, carrying years in its brittle voice.

They say a rule was broken when this one sprouted. Where the garden bowed to order, The Rebel grew against it, choosing neither light nor shadow, but both. It is restless, untamed, and never silent. To hear its tale is to know that disobedience, too, has a kind of bloom—one that survives because it refuses to surrender.

They say this flower was never meant to bloom. It grew in silence, far from the others, as if the garden itself tried to hide it. No twin, no companion—just one stem carrying a weight too heavy for its roots. The Solitary whispers of those who walk alone, not because they choose to, but because fate chose it for them. And yet, in its loneliness, it blooms stronger than all the rest.

Long ago, when the garden was first whispered into existence, a single flower grew at its edge. They called it The Veil, for it stood where life and death brushed against one another. No one dared touch it. They said the flower was planted by shadows, watered by silence, and fed with the breath of those who never returned. To look upon it was to feel the pull of something vast and endless, a promise and a warning all at once.

Legends tell that those who claimed The Veil could see beyond the world for a single heartbeat… yet they never looked the same again.